Sunday, August 1, 2010

Bad hair days

So we're back home and I am in desperate need of a haircut. I'm nearly as overgrown as the garden, about which I am trying not to panic. The hair is another matter. That is definitely something to panic about. And I don't like going to the hairdressers.

For years I cut my own hair. I'd put it into a plait and chop the end off. That was easy when it was nearly down to my waist. Then I thought I'd get a chunk cut off and deal with the (many) split ends, so went to a nice woman in Limerick. She was lovely and all was reasonably well. I had it cut shorter - something approaching a style instead of a mess that I tied up every day. But then my nice lady left. I changed to Andrew, a delightful fellow who had a boat. Oh joy! That awkward hairdresser-talk problem was solved. We could do boat-talk.

The trouble was he was more interested in boats than in cutting hair. The cut steadily got worse as the salon became emptier. No more bored girl sweeping up the hair. In fact hardly a customer at all. Time to find someone new.

So I took advice and went relatively local. Not too local though. Didn't want to be sitting there in the bright lights with scraped back hair and feeling exposed when one of my students walked in. Or anyone I knew for that matter. She was good, this hairdresser. Took care about the job. Not too much small talk either. Excellent result for the first two visits. But then there came the frumpy cut. The one that made me look like a throwback to the seventies, or belonged on the head of someone trying to look middle-aged.

At the next visit I explained I felt frumpy while trying not to sound like I was complaining. I'm such a wimp at complaining. The cut was better, but a bit short. Nobody recognised me. I quite liked that.

After the next cut I came home and Joe said I looked like a nice middle-class lady. So that was that. A new hairdresser has to be found. Once again I took advice and have an appointment in Galway on Tuesday. I have high expectations but no doubt will be coming home and washing my hair/hiding/wearing a hat as usual. I don't necessarily blame the hairdresser. I just have bad hair.

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About Me

Two blogs now.
Floating Boater is mostly about our life on the waterways of Ireland on Winter Solstice, our timber cruiser. She's a Rampart 32 built in 1969 in Southampton. She was one of the last this size to come out of the Rampart boatyard – plastic was the material of the future. So a classic but with a definite sixties bent.
Every summer we take off on the astonishingly varied waterways of Ireland and enter another, sweeter world. In between I tend my vegetables, look after our acre or so of garden in East Clare, write poetry, and teach and play flute. I occasionally have to do other paid work too.
We're on the move from our present house and I have a new acre to begin. So Mucky Fingernails is the gardening wing. It's a record of the creation of a new garden, starting from an open field.